Jessica Belmosto

The life stopped when I got the call you had a stroke. It was an out of body experience I’ll never forget. You know in movies when they zoom out, everything becomes blurry except the main character and there’s that high pitched ringing? Yeah, that’s exactly how I felt.

I packed a bag but only threw in shirts because I simply couldn’t focus and knew I needed to get to Boston immediately. The car ride from Plattsburgh to Boston was the longest five hours of my life. I remember thinking, “Don’t you dare die.” to myself over and over again. I wanted the throw up. I knew what this meant.

The Hospital

The only upside to all of this is that it was pre COVID-19. If my dad had to be alone through all of this I would’ve raised absolute hell and been even more angry than I am.

Holding my dad’s hand and reading to him was what helped me process losing him. We would listen to his favorite music and talk about his glory days. It was such an important time because it allowed me to begin the grieving process, even if I didn’t want to believe it My heart breaks for everyone who has had to lose a loved one from a distance this year.

The Final Hours

Imagine spending your 21st birthday taking your father off of life support. Yeah, that’s what my brother did. I’ve never told him but he composed himself so well during these meetings. Meanwhile, I was slamming my hands on the table and screaming at doctors for their lack of trying and compassion. It was a full John Q moment really. When we were forced to go before the ethics board because we didn’t have a healthcare proxy, I really almost flipped the table. It was humiliating. My dad always told me what he wanted if this were to ever happen. The fact that an end of life nurse practitioner was being condescending and suggesting he rot away in a long term care facility was disgusting. I

I didn’t have any words by the end of the meeting. I was in tears from anger and realizing my dad’s life was coming to an end. This was it. There would be no more road trips. He would never walk me down the aisle. He’d never get to meet his grandchildren and love them unconditionally.

Everyone had a few moments with my dad before they began the process. I sat by his bedside and cried as I told him how grateful I was for 24 years. I played one of his favorite Taylor Swift songs and sang it quietly to him. I squeezed his hand and told him I loved him.

Once he was cleaned up and everything, we were allowed to go back in. I had called my friends and told them the latest update. We gathered in the ICU waiting room in silence. That same high pitch ringing was taking over again. It felt like a bad dream.

My brother ended up going home because of how sick he was. The poor kid had lost his dog a few weeks prior and was now saying goodbye to his dad. It broke my heart. He’s so strong and I admire the absolute hell out of him.

At midnight he called and we put him on speaker phone. “Dad it’s not my birthday anymore. You can let go now.” I thought I was going to collapse. My chest felt like I was caving in. Imagine having to speak those words.

A really nice nurse came in and brought as cots as it was nearing 1am. His stats were declining but we didn’t know how soon it’d be until he took his final breath. Bradley and I got comfortable on the cots while my mom and Jess went to the vending machine to grab waters and me a Kit-Kat.

11 minutes later he was gone. My mom came into the room on her way back from the vending machine. “Jess, I think he’s gone honey.” She whispered to me.

I was numb.

My life was changed forever. I didn’t have a dad anymore. We all cried around the foot of the bed as we waited for the doctor to call TOD. I gave him another hug, kissed his forehead, and told him I’d see him soon.

Life After You

It was hard. From writing his obituary to getting incredibly drunk and sobbing in his bed the night after he passed. There was no way it was real. He was still alive. He was just at his ex’s house or something. He’d be back!

I certainly wish that was the case. Instead, the condolences flowed in and I had to make sure I was poised enough to take their casserole and say thank you.

The pain doesn’t stop after the casseroles stop coming. It’s something I live with on a daily basis. For the longest time, I would be out and about and grab my phone to call my dad. He wasn’t going to pick up.

We’re a year removed now and there’s been a lot of growing. I am very open with my grief online. It is very therapeutic for me and I’ve also met a few other people in a similar situation.

It’s hard to even explain how life is. Some days are good and other days seeing a dad and daughter is exactly like pouring salt into an open wound. I was severely depressed in the spring and summer. We couldn’t really go anywhere and I was left alone with my thoughts for 8 hours a day while Bradley worked. It was in these months that I learned who I had to be. It was okay to feel emotions and cry. Some days you have to stay in bed and watch YouTube until it’s time for bed again. Other days I could muster up the energy to go for a walk. I learned to celebrate the small victories. You have to. One day at a time.

I’ve grown comfortable with silence. I used to listen to music constantly. I needed a form of stimulation to stop my mind from wandering. Now, I crave silence. I like being able to sit down and reflect or process what I’m feeling.

I’m incredibly fortunate to have the family I do. My mom and brother are always a phone call or FaceTime away. I also have Bradley’s family. His parents are heaven sent and his sister is wonderful. I’m so thankful they got to meet my dad. I know they were sent to me for a reason.

The Ugly Truth

There are days where I sit in my car and cry. Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere or it’s because I had a dream about him. I’ll sit there and cry in my parking spot at my apartment and hope no one sees me. Sometimes I don’t eat or drink because the grief is too much. I can’t physically stomach eating because of how sick I feel. I’ve gotten better about this but sometimes I don’t eat until 9pm simply because I didn’t want to.

I haven’t officially been diagnosed with PTSD from this situation but I did struggle with it prior to losing my dad. I think it’s been amplified due to how his sudden death. Hospitals scare me. I can’t walk through the hallways without crying. It doesn’t matter than it’s a hospital in New York and not Boston. The lighting is the same. There’s patients who are dying and families experiencing what I went through. It’s too much. The physical affects of being in a doctors office is too much for me. Sometimes I feel really sick and like I could pass out. My dad complained of a headache the night before he got sick. Every single night I go to bed with a headache I wonder if my life is going down the same path. Every time my phone rings I’m in fear my mom is going to tell me someone else we love is sick or has died. I can’t stomach anymore bad news.

The first six weeks of 2020 were filled with horrible losses. I lost my dog, dad, and friend Alex. All of these were sudden and unexpected. That’s a lot for anyone to handle in a lifetime let alone a short period of time.

Remembering Him

My dad had stories for everything. Sometimes I wonder how on earth he got away with some things. Then again, it was a different time and not everyone was out looking to cause a problem.

My dad was a major sports fan. All I ever wanted was for him to get to see a Red Sox World Series. He got 4. As Boston sports fans, we never watched a Championship together. We watched game 7 of the 2019 Stanley Cup Finals together. I’d like to forget about that though. His commentary was phenomenal though.

His stories from high school sports to working at the old Garden always fascinated me. I couldn’t believe it! The Blizzard of ‘78! Who the hell is gonna tell the story of him and his friends jumping off the roof into snow and one of his friends busting his nose open and the snow looking like a cherry snow cone? Memories, man.

Dad was a story teller. I think I got that from him, except I enjoy writing them. I got a lot of different things from Dad and I’m embracing all of them.

I’m looking forward to the day where we can host his celebration of life and honor him for the incredible person he was.

Something that gives me comfort is knowing that he’s with his mother and best friend John now. Wherever the afterlife may be, I know they’re having a great time and probably taking Lilly for a walk. I’m not big into religion but I do believe he’s resting comfortably and at peace now wherever they are. He sends me signs to let me know it’s all okay.

The New Normal

I think about my dad and how he would have reacted to COVID. He was a very claustrophobic man so these masks would not have worked for him. He would’ve sent me and Bradley to Walmart for his turkey sub and $.50 pie. It makes me chuckle though because I can hear him now, talking about how ridiculous people are for not believing in the severity of the virus but in the same breath talking about why he won’t leave the house because of the masks.

My dad was a simple man and nothing could ever change that. Technology was not for him. I’d always set him up with The West Wing or Blue Bloods before heading to school and he’d ask me to switch it to the Wii after I returned.

I won’t delete his Netflix profile and I’ll certainly never delete his pro golfer Mii from Wii Sports. Instead, I let them sit there and be another reminder of what once.

The new normal for many of us is only traveling to the store for essential items and being careful when it comes to social distancing. For me, it’s wearing his t shirt to bed because it’s the closet thing to a hug. It’s taking a few extra minutes to pray each night. It’s hugging Bradley a little tighter because saw me at my lowest and chose to stay. It’s calling my mom and brother more frequently because it’s an excuse to talk about Dad.

Thank you to everyone who has been there for my family and I this year. Your donations, meals, and kind words went a lot further than you’ll ever know. If you met my dad and have a fond memory please feel free to share it. Sometimes I feel like there’s a lot I don’t know about him.